


first kill

by bakubros



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Multi, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-30
Updated: 2019-12-14
Packaged: 2020-09-29 15:30:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20438324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakubros/pseuds/bakubros
Summary: The brunet's scowl somehow deepens. “Your words are empty.” He gestures to the rest of the class, all without taking his eyes off the goal in front of him. “They’re not like you. None of us are.”Byleth glances back once more just in time to see the hurt flash in Dimitri’s eyes. “What do you mean by that—”Felix stops mid-march to look Dimitri dead in the eye. “They’re not killers, you boar. The rest of us? We’re humans—not animals.”------------The members of the Blue Lions have a lot of thoughts about death—and what it means to kill. Standing at the forefront of all their doubt, confusion, and introspection is the Prince of Faerghus himself, often just as tired and lost as the rest of them. [A ficlet collection compiling the ways that the children of Faerghus learn to deal with war; basically everyone in the Blue Lions (and Byleth!) x Dimitri.]





	1. harpstring moon, day 31; midday

harpstring moon, day 31

There are a lot of things that Byleth still has yet to understand, but the most pressing one at the moment is her budding awareness of her students’ vulnerability. Just the night before, they had all seemed excited enough to go out on their first mission together, to get some  _ real _ fighting experience—even though a number of them had already admitted to being on the battlefield. And yet...

With every step, with every breath, it’s as though their tension and anxiety become more and more tangible. Their movements are as sharp as ever, but slightly off-beat—every action a half-second later than what Byleth had taught them during training. Their conversations are careful and hushed when they ripple through the group—starting in the mid-rear between Annette and Mercedes, echoing through via Ashe and Dimitri’s timid acknowledgement, and then being stopped almost instantaneously by the stony faces of Felix and Dedue. Still, the diluted sentiment is strong enough for Byleth to understand despite the layers of filtration that her more serious students provide. She even finds herself wondering how the sentiments are being regarded in the back of the group, with Sylvain and Ingrid—two of her more thoughtful students with a tendency to keep their true thoughts to themselves.

Byleth’s only known these children (because that’s what they are: children that are too young, too innocent, too  _ gentle _ for bloodshed) for a couple of weeks, but she can’t help but feel their obvious trepidation tug at her heartstrings—however faint the pull may be. The vast majority of her students are open books—too genuine and honest to hide their true beliefs, and so Byleth can’t help but worry that this experience will somehow taint them; will rip at their humble bindings and tear apart the precious pages that lie within. 

She thinks that she’s supposed to say something. She’s the one in charge, after all, and their lives—their unstained hands—are her responsibility. 

But it’s more than that.

For the first time, Byleth  _ wants _ to say something. She  _ wants _ to have words that’ll be enough to soothe the stormy hearts of her students, something that’ll reassure them that, in the end, everything will be okay. That she would protect them, that she would rather  _ die _ than watch them get hurt.

But the words don’t exist for her—not yet. Not when these sentiments are only floating around in her subconscious, only wisps of thought and emotion that have yet to be fully realized within her own cloudy heart.

And so she can’t help but feel a little surprised when Dimitri speaks up, filling the air with the words that Byleth had been unable to find. 

“We’re going to be okay, everyone. With the Professor and the Knights here, I’m sure everything will be just fine.” 

He could have just left it at that. Could have just ignored the bigger issue that was looming over them all. But he doesn’t. He addresses it head-on, determination in his speech despite the gentle quiver in his voice. “To take another’s life is not an easy task—physically or emotionally. Trust me when I say that I fully understand that… But there are times when we have no choice but to raise our blades if it means protecting the things—the people—that we care about.”

Dimitri pauses to take a breath, and the momentary emptiness in the air is filled with the sound of a scoff, followed by a reproachful “ _ Felix _ ” from someone in the back of the troupe. Byleth turns her head to see Dimitri holding back a sad sigh. “No, Ingrid. Let him say his piece.”

Ingrid grimaces. From beside her, Sylvain averts his eyes. Felix almost growls while the others—save Dedue—try to lower their heads even more in an attempt to avoid direct involvement with the situation at hand. “I don’t  _ need _ your permission—or anyone’s—to speak.”

They’re all still marching despite the exchange taking place—Byleth, the students, the knights; they continue their advance to a loss of innocence all while questioning what that loss even means. It’s as though they’re all aware that the question exists and that it’s an important one to be considered—and yet, to truly consider it would be futile. They are already aware of what must be done.

“I know.” The voice is timid. Mindful. As though Dimitri’s already aware that nothing he says will be enough.

The brunet's scowl somehow deepens. “Your words are empty.” He gestures to the rest of the class, all without taking his eyes off the goal in front of him. “They’re not  _ like _ you. None of us are.”

Byleth glances back once more just in time to see the hurt flash in Dimitri’s eyes. “What do you mean by that—”

Felix stops mid-march to look Dimitri dead in the eye. “They’re not killers, you boar. The rest of us? We’re humans—not animals.”

Nobody knows what to say to that. Byleth can sense the conflict in her students’ hearts but knows fully well that no one would dare involve themselves in this mess now: Annette, Mercedes, and Ashe fear that any comment from them would only make tensions worse; Dedue, Sylvain, and Ingrid know Dimitri well enough to know that he wouldn’t  _ want _ them to say anything.

With that, Felix turns back on his heel, shifting past Byleth as though the exchange hadn't even happened. After a long look at Dimitri, as though reading the other’s mind, Dedue follows suit. Ingrid gently nudges the others along while Sylvain murmurs a soft comment at who-knows-whose expense. Dimitri alone just stands there, eyes downcast as though still trying to process his childhood friend’s words. 

And so the silence lingers, festers, even as the knights march past and the seconds tick on. Dimitri stands, dazed and thoughtful, while Byleth stares, quietly and contemplatively and wishing—really, truly wishing— that she had the words to say something. Anything, really.

But she doesn’t. And she hates that she doesn’t.

Finally after what feels like eons of silence, Dimitri finally looks up: blue eyes distant and wary even as his lips raise themselves in a gentle smile.

“My apologies, Professor.” He pauses for a moment, as though he has more to say but feels the need to hold himself back. “Shall we get going then?”

He doesn’t wait for Byleth’s response, just resumes walking with that dazed smile on his face as though everything is right in the world. And Byleth can’t help but feel that it’s so  _ wrong _ . Sothis had insinuated that leading the children into battle would be cause for discomfort, but Byleth hadn’t really  _ felt _ it. Not until right now, in this very moment, as she watches Dimitri’s delicately crafted expression of complacency inch closer and closer towards her.

He stops right as his cape brushes her shoulder, as soon as his features are out of Byleth’s immediate line of sight.

“I wouldn’t want the others to have to go through it alone.”

And that’s the moment Byleth first realizes that war is something to truly be loathed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god this was elkrjwalekrj honestly so much fun to write! i have all the chapters for this basically mapped out, so hopefully i'll be able to update this at least once a week. comments and feedbacks are much appreciated! ♡


	2. garland moon, day 1; midnight

It’s late when Dimitri makes his way through the cathedral’s entrance. The moonlight shines in through the paned glass of the ceiling windows, bathing the sacred space in a cold, blue light that feels all at once ethereal and humbling. It makes Dimitri feel so _ small_.

A part of him feels a vague sense of guilt for breaking curfew to be here, for not setting a better example as head of his house. After everything they’ve been through today, the others need him to be a model leader—the leader he’s _ meant _ to be.

But he can’t help it.

He advances towards the altar almost mindlessly, forcing all thoughts out of his head to just allow himself some time to process—even if processing for Dimitri just means dissociating through it all. The moonlight feels almost cleansing when he steps into it, when he finally allows himself to just _ breathe_. That battle wasn’t the first time Dimitri’s gotten blood on his hands, but that doesn’t mean he’s fully desensitized himself to the utter _ emptiness _ that comes along with it. 

He doesn’t know if he ever will.

“I didn’t expect you to come here,” a voice softly murmurs from somewhere behind him. 

The crown prince almost jumps at the sudden disruption of silence, spinning on his heel, eyes wide, to face the voice head-on.

Sitting at the border between light and shadow is a girl with thick, ash-blonde hair, expression as kind as ever—perhaps even more so now, with the shimmer of unshed tears glistening brightly in her eyes.

“Mercedes,” Dimitri breathes, tension immediately dissipating at the sight of her. “You weren’t at dinner this evening.” It’s a stupid thing to say and a part of him knows it. But given the suddenness of this conversation, the belated observation is the only thing that comes to mind.

“And so you came to the cathedral at half-past midnight because you were worried about me?” She laughs a little at that, and the sound echoes through the building—something pitiful, something broken, something that isn’t _ meant _ to make Dimitri feel bad about himself but surely does.

Both of them look so agonizingly small in that very moment: Mercedes, still in her battle robes, cheeks still tainted by the dirt and smoke of the canyon air, tears threatening to fall with each passing moment as she maintains her calm composure despite the obvious conflict staging itself in her heart; Dimitri, dressed clean and proper, cheeks colored—with embarrassment? shame?—and shoulders slumped as though he’s a child caught in the midst of some terrible act, standing there in the solitary moonlight, struggling to find the words he so desperately needs to assuage the awkwardness of their situation.

The silence nestles itself between them, gradually becoming more and more unbearable for one while fading into absolute nothingness for the other.

Mercedes shifts to the center of the pew in silent invitation, and after a few more beats of nothingness, Dimitri quietly accepts. “I _ was _ worried, you know… We all were,” he finally answers, still unable to look his comrade in the eye. There’s truth somewhere in that sentiment—they’re both aware of it. But just how _ much _ truth is something that’s not immediately clear to either of them.

“I’m worried about me too,” comes the honest voice, accompanied by another one of those sad little laughs.

Dimitri doesn’t know what to say to that. And so he says nothing.

“Did you come here to pray?”

The simple answer is no. But that isn’t something that Dimitri wants to say aloud—especially when seated before the altar of the Goddess like this. “Did you?”

His attempt at evasion is weak. Tactless, really. But Mercedes doesn’t push him further. “I don’t know,” she says, blue eyes appearing almost vacant when she averts her focus onto the hands folded neatly in her lap. “Maybe.”

It’s not an answer that Dimitri would have expected—not from Mercedes. It makes him squirm in even greater discomfort. There’s something about the numbing breath of the moonlight, something about the forbidden hour in which they sit, something unnamed clawing at the edges of his mind, of his heart, making him feel less focused, less sharp than usual. He wants to help her. He wants to help everyone. And he hates that he has no idea how.

“Oh,” is all he lamely says, sinking further into the wood beneath him. “You’ve spent an awful lot of time here for something that’s only _ maybe _ prayer.”

“It feels like the whole world has been full of maybes as of late,” she quietly answers, eyes never wavering from the hands in her lap. “Maybe we shouldn’t have killed those people. Maybe the Goddess had greater plans for them, greater plans for _ us _. Maybe there’s another way to end conflict besides murder and bloodshed.” Mercedes never loses that soothing quality to her voice, never loses the rigidity in her posture or the gentleness in her eyes as she ponders all this aloud. After another moment’s pause, she forces out another chuckle. “Maybe I should know better than to waste your time with my petty ramblings…. Or maybe they’re thoughts you’ve had as well.”

Dimitri doesn’t know if he’s thought similar things in the past. Has he ever stopped to try and _ rationalize _ the necessity of death? Or is it simply just another part of life that he’s had no choice but to accept?

(He has no time to spare for empty rationalizations—his heart is already set, his conviction already drawn.)

“You’re not wasting my time,” he answers. And he means it. “I don’t believe that bloodshed is ever the answer—but sometimes it’s unavoidable. All we can do is fight.” His body suddenly feels too small in his uniformed armor, and the hair on the back of his neck rises despite the warmth his cloak provides. “Our thoughts may sometimes fill themselves with maybes, but our actions should always be resolute—once a deed has been done, there’s no taking it back.”

Mercedes hums in thoughtful acknowledgment, eyes shifting to rest on the royalty beside her. His words hang heavily in the air—and something about the way he says them makes her believe that they weigh even heavier within his own heart. She’s right to know that this isn’t an open display of vulnerability. But she’s also perceptive enough to realize that there’s more to Dimitri than he’s ever let on.

And that revelation makes her wonder.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he carefully continues, and Mercedes mentally prepares herself for the further self-deprecation she’s sure that Dimitri’s words will trigger. 

“Why are you so hesitant to pray right now?”

The question catches her off-guard as it pulls her back into the present, forcing her to face the immediate result of her wavering heart. 

“Forgive me if this sounds presumptuous but… Prayer has always been so important to you… And I don’t want to stand idly by and watch as you lose yourself to bloodshed.”

Mercedes lets her gaze linger on Dimitri for a few moments longer, wondering how a man can be so strong yet so vulnerable at the same time. Then she averts her gaze, looking up at the altar for the first time all day.

It’s a hard question that Mercedes knows the answer to, somewhere deep within her heart. But to know a truth and to speak it aloud are two very different things, and Mercedes finds that she just _ can’t _ do that last part. Not yet at least.

She says nothing.

“Perhaps… For the time being at least… You can just focus on keeping us healthy and healed up. Goddess knows that you’re the best healer at the academy and you possess the ability to get through to others in a way that I simply cannot…” He trails off for a moment, and the words dance gently through Mercedes’ ears as she keeps her eyes trained forward—as she thinks to herself and allows Dimitri to ruminate beside her. “Having to fight on the frontlines… Allow me to take care of it, okay?”

The offer surprises her enough to bring her full attention back to the prince.

Her answer is no, plain and simple: to take on her burdens, her _ doubts_, when she can already tell he is forcing himself to carry so many… It’s a fool’s errand and she knows that. She almost immediately begins the process of stringing together the words needed to gently correct him.

But the look in his eyes… So kind and determined…. A surprising degree of wisdom dancing behind youthful innocence…

It makes Mercedes realize that she doesn’t currently _ have _ the words that Dimitri needs to hear. And she doesn’t know if she’ll _ ever _ have them; perhaps there are no words in the English lexicon to properly encapsulate what Dimitri’s going through or what it is that he needs to hear.

But Mercedes has always been a firm believer that actions speak louder than words.

And so she reaches across the space between them and rests her hand on top of his. For the first time since Dimitri acknowledged her presence in the cathedral, he looks at her: eyes wide with surprise and wonder as Mercedes smiles at him—an honest one this time, and not at all sad.

“And I’ll be the one to take care of you.”

The words aren’t approval of his proposal, nor are they a rejection of it; they’re a gentle embrace, a soft whisper of a promise that feels so raw and genuine that the crown prince is at a loss for what to say.

But Dimitri, for just a single, fleeting moment, feels almost at ease.

And that alone says more than words ever could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah this took me longer than i thought it would to write, but it felt oddly cathartic in a way? had some big life decisions to make this past week and man... i honestly _wish_ mercedes was there to basically hold my hand and tell me that she'd take care of me. like damn that would've been awesome.
> 
> but!! as always, thoughts and feedback would be much appreciated! writing these out is such a great writing exercise for me and i'd love to hear what you guys think. and i've really appreciated the comments i've received thus far so! ♡


	3. blue sea moon, day 6; evening

Ashe finds Dimitri shrouded in darkness—a shock of bright yellow hair amidst the monotonous weeds that fill the cemetery. Or perhaps that he _ finds _ him isn’t the correct term; it’s more like Ashe had been absently wandering, searching for something, surely, but not Dimitri. Certainly not Dimitri.

In fact, it feels like Ashe has been searching for eternities now, but he knows that can’t be the case. Not when it’s only been a few days since Lonato passed.

(Since Lonato was killed. Since Lonato was _ murdered_.)

Time passes strangely when you’ve lost yourself to searching. That’s at least _ one _ lesson that Ashe has learned since his arrival at Garreg Mach. 

“Oh, Ashe… Is that you?”

The sound of his name on the lips of the other feels wrong—and, frankly, Ashe isn’t sure that it’ll ever feel _ right_. It makes him uncomfortable even though he knows it shouldn't; all at once, it makes him feel small and embarrassed and frustrated and upset and sickened and absolutely _ mortified _ when he realizes that all these feelings are no one’s but his own.

“Your High—I-I mean, Dimitri!” he stutters out, feeling himself redden at the slight crack in his voice. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to disturb you, I was just…”

_ Searching_.

Dimitri just waves away the apology, a polite smile on his face that slowly disappears as Ashe’s words trail off. He’s never been the best at reading the emotions of others, but even _ he _ can tell that there’s something gnawing at the mind of the other boy. Seated on the steps of the cemetery staircase, blue eyes shining with concern and brows drawn together in worry, Dimitri looks awfully out of place when he finally offers, “Were you perhaps looking for me?”

In all honesty, Ashe has no idea what he’s looking for. If he had to guess, then perhaps he’s looking for understanding? Understanding for why Lonato had to die, why the Western Church had to use him, why _ they _had to be sent to clean up the remnants of the rebellion… Why Ashe had to watch as Lonato had…

But understanding isn’t something tangible, isn’t something that Ashe can just magically stumble upon while he wanders through the monastery and isolates himself from his friends and comrades alike. Even Ashe knows that it would be an illogical admission.

And it’s not like he can admit something that aloud in front of Dimitri, the _ future king of Faerghus_—and certainly not when he looks at Ashe like _ that_. There’s something about the shine of Dimitri’s eyes that makes Ashe all the more uncomfortable when he stares up at him. He isn’t sure what it is exactly, if it’s simply the act of being looked at, really, truly _ looked at_, if it’s the way he’s _ being _ looked at—up at, not down on—if it’s perhaps the way Dimitri doesn’t just _ see _ Ashe, but the way he almost sees _ through _him—past the awkward stuttering and the slightly reddened cheeks and the newly awakened emotions that fester and froth in the depths of his heart—and sees something within him that Ashe has yet to even see for himself.

“N-No. That’s not it,” he finally responds. It’s perhaps too simple of an answer—perhaps it’s really not much of an answer at all. But it’s all he can seem to manage.

The romanticized, all-seeing Dimitri that Ashe thinks he sees couldn’t be further from the truth. Sure, there are _ some _ things the young prince knows, but there are even more that he simply doesn’t; hundreds of thousands of things the prince isn’t even aware he _ should _ be knowing.

Yet there’s no denying the powerful weight that’s ever-present in his stare, even as a low, non-committal hum reverberates through his throat and his gaze casts itself once more over the weeds and the tombstones and whatever else it is that lies beyond them—and away from Ashe. “I always come here after I’ve finished my training for the day,” he says. The words aren’t addressed to anyone in particular; it’s more like they’re a simple truth that Dimitri is acknowledging aloud that Ashe just so happens to overhear. “It’s always so quiet here. No one really seems to come after dark, so it’s a nice place to get some personal thinking done.”

Ashe fidgets with the hem of his sleeve, still not quite sure what to do with himself—and still not sure why he hasn’t chosen to just… _ leave_. With every additional second that he lingers, he feels his discomfort and his insignificance and his frustration and his nausea increase and intensify. But still he stands, practically rooted in place at the head of the stairs, forcing an awkward little laugh as he says, “Well, it _is _ a cemetery after all… Don’t you find it a bit unsettling to be surrounded by spirits in the dark like this?”

It’s a notion that’s difficult for him to understand, to even acknowledge the possibility of. To willingly immerse oneself in the world of those who have already fallen… to _ consciously _ choose to visit the final resting place of the dead as a means of getting “some personal thinking done”... What does that _ say _ about a person? Why not allow the dad their time to rest, undisturbed, without idle princes wandering in every night for a change of scenery? How is that fair at all? Why does Dimitri think he has the _ right_?

He isn’t sure if he imagines the sudden tension in Dimitri’s hunched shoulders or if it’s just a trick of the candlelight.

“I suppose I’m just used to it by now,” comes the slow response. The blond leans slightly back against the steps of the staircase, eyes still trained forward as he does so. And there’s something about the simplicity of that statement paired with the mundanity of the prince's assumed posture that really rubs Ashe the wrong way.

A part of him rationalizes that _ he’s _ not being fair right now; that _ he’s _ the one making hasty assumptions and overly-critical judgments—and perhaps that’s true. But the voice of reason is quickly drowned out by all the images that flash through his vision. He thinks of all the innocent townsfolk who had been pulled into all the conflicts as of late; thinks about the strangers they've fought, the strangers they’ve _ killed_; thinks about the way Lonato had fallen, the way the blade had ripped through his armor, turning it dark with the wetness of his blood as his body had tumbled off his horse, as he had just _ lay _ there, the life slowly seeping out of him, cursing one while begging forgiveness from another…

A part of Ashe knows that he’s not being fair. But he’s come to learn that the world itself is perhaps the most unfair thing to have ever come into existence.

And so he finds himself advancing down the staircase, stepping into the shadows with clenched fists, inching closer and closer to where Dimitri sits. A strained, almost incredulous chuckle forces its way through the tightness in his throat as he walks. “You mean to say that death no longer fazes you?"

There’s been so much death since the school year had begun—so much pain and senseless violence since the Tragedy of Duscur, really, maybe even _ before _ then. But it’s not until recently that he’s been confronted by the physicality of the bodies, the piles and piles of corpses of civilians and soldiers alike. There are so many of them, but even then, Ashe is fully aware that he has yet to be _ surrounded _ by death—there’s still months and years and an entire _ life _ dedicated to knighthood that he must experience before even coming _ close _ to reaching that point. The future that lies before him is filled with more death, more suffering, and he already knows that he’ll _ never _ be okay with it—how could anyone reasonably become accustomed to the loss of life, unfazed by it? How could someone _ willingly _ immerse themselves in the hallowed corpses and restless spirits as though it’s a place of peace, of serenity, a place for idle _ thought_?

It’s disgusting. And that idea alone fills him with an unbearable amount of hatred for the vast injustice of the world and self-loathing for allowing himself to even entertain such a poisonous worldview.

Maybe there’s no point in dreaming of knighthood if it only leads to a future painted with bile and blood.

“On the contrary, my friend,” comes the quiet answer. “I do not come here because the graves offer me peace; I do not here come here for the graves themselves at all…”

Ashe’s vision oscillates between crimson red to technicolor to absolute monochrome as he finally stops his advance to loom over the untouchable boy before him. 

But Dimitri doesn’t even spare him so much as a glance. “When I come here, I look beyond the graves—at the trees, at the valleys, at the stars… I come here so that I can remember all the deaths I’ve witnessed firsthand and look out at the world that was taken from those who have passed—the world that _ I _ took from them. I come here not just to think, but to _ remember_: remember their cries, their faces, _ their hopes and their dreams_… Because if I don’t, then who will?” He pauses for a moment, shoulders slumping forward to gather his thoughts. “When I come here, it’s so that I can remind myself not to forget the unbearable weight that death brings with it… And to remind myself that it’s _ because _ of that burden that I must continue on—no matter how unbearable it may be.”

His heart constricts at the admission, but other than that, Dimitri doesn’t move at all. From where he sits and stares, the only thing he can make out of the other boy is his shadow: the way it looms over him, large and baleful, blending in with the night to become an entity that is both fragile and omnipotent. Dimitri can _ feel _ the curdling discontent growing bigger and bigger behind him—it’s a feeling he knows all too well. For that reason, and that reason alone, he can push no blame onto Ashe for what it is that’s going through his head… Or whatever actions he’ll choose to take next.

A part of Dimitri wonders if he should feel scared.

“Do you resent me, Ashe? For being the one to kill your father?”

The freckled boy feels his chest tighten at the question, feels the world melt and spin and fade until there’s nothing left but him staring down at Dimitri, searching for the answers to the universe from a boy barely knowledgeable of its workings himself.

Dimitri is his father’s murderer. But he’s also the future king. And trying to reconcile the two within the fragility of his heart and mind feels more like a fool’s errand than anything else. Nothing will ever change the fact that Lonato had given Ashe the world, and Ashe had to watch as his was taken away.

But he knows that resentment isn’t the right word. He could never _ resent _ His Highness. He just… He just wants to _ understand_.

The only response Dimitri receives are the tears that finally slip from the tired green eyes above him, falling first onto the brightness of his hair and then again upon the slope of his cheek as he hurriedly raises his head to look up at his comrade. “A-Ashe, I—”

“No,” the silver-haired boy cuts in, voice strong and clear despite the quivering of his lip. “Dimitri, I could _ never_.” His fists are clenched tightly by his sides as the tears rush down his features, but despite it all, he never takes his gaze off the boy in front of him. “I’d _ never_.”

The words touch Dimitri in a way he can’t quite explain—chest tightening as he wordlessly stares. He’s speechless, in a way, jarred by the other’s obvious goodness and honesty despite the cruel circumstances that have been forced upon him. He knows that he has to say _ something_, that it would be unfair of him to say nothing at all, but it’s difficult to do when there’s something stirring within him for the first time in a long time—something within the very depths of his soul.

Because Ashe _ deserves _ to hate the murderer of his father—regardless of the circumstances, nothing can ever change the fact that Lonato’s blood was—_is_—on Dimitri’s hands and Dimitri’s alone. Nothing can—

“It’s not your fault,” Ashe says, this time a little softer. “He would probably have killed me or one of the others if you hadn’t acted. Dimitri, it’s not your fault.” His tears come to a stop as he shares that sentiment, and his hands loosen just as Dimitri looks away to hide his glistening emotion and distract from his newly clenched fists.

(Ashe is wrong.)

It’s silent for a few moments as the young prince struggles to find the words to say. “I envy your heart,” is all he finally manages, turning back to face Ashe with a strained smile.

To his surprise, he doesn’t even have to turn his head all the way. The freckled boy with the searching eyes is now seated beside him, dried tears shimmering in the moonlight as he playfully nudges his friend. “Why? Yours’ is just as good.”

Dimitri really doesn’t know what to say to that, and Ashe doesn’t expect him to say anything at all; it would be unfair of him to expect all the answers in the world from this boy that sits on the same step as him—not above, not below, _ together_.

The two of them sit there for the rest of the night in silence, staring out at an unfair, unkind, un_known _ world—searching. 

Dedue finds them later that night, resting their heads against one another, fast asleep on that staircase to the dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god, this chapter was ridiculously difficult for me to write... there were a lot of different angles that i wanted to try out with this one, and trying to consolidate them all into a single story proved a lot more difficult than i thought would be. this version of the chapter is actually the fifth version of the ashe/dimitri interaction that i wrote and like... there are parts of it that i'm still not 100% sure i'm in love with, but i think that, for the most part, i like how it turned out? what do you guys think?
> 
> as always, thank you so much for taking the time to read this! i'm particularly excited to write the next two chapters, so hopefully i'll be able to get those out in a reasonable amount of time! i really am sorry that this one took forever to get up. ;-;


	4. ethereal moon, day 4; night

Dimitri hates that he has to hide away in the library; as far as he’s concerned, it’s time that he _ could _ spend training but instead spends wasting. He needs to get stronger as quickly as possible so that he can protect the innocent—so that he can properly seek _ justice _. But it’s one in the morning at Garrech Mach Monastery, and while he’s certainly snuck out before, he’s found that his loyal retainer is more concerned than usual about his liege’s health—he all but refuses to give Dimitri any alone time at all.

And Dimitri doesn’t need that. Nor does he appreciate it. All he knows is that he’s being _ held back _ when he should be pushing forward; he’s not _ sick _ , after all, regardless of what the others think, what the others _ say _ . And sleeping right now would just be an even bigger waste of his time; even though it’s significantly less productive than actual _ training _ would be, at the very least he could still look through monastery records and better determine an ideal course of action that would—

The door opens somewhere behind him, and Dimitri feels his entire body tense up. He’s made a strong effort to be alone—he even chased out that _ Linhardt _ fellow for pity’s sake—and if Dedue was going to try and drag him off again…

“Look, Dedue,” Dimitri grits, voice barely above a whisper. “I’m fine. There’s nothing wrong with me, so you can just—”

“No, Your Highness. It’s me.”

When Dimitri finally turns to look at the gentle-voiced newcomer, he finds Ingrid standing there: eyes soft and curious and worried as she cradles a warm mug in her hands.

He isn’t really sure what to say. She, on the other hand, is highly aware that there’s nothing she _ can _ say that hasn’t been said already—by her, by Dedue, by Felix… and surely the others as well. So Ingrid says nothing as she softly shuts the door behind her and takes a seat beside her prince, passing him the cup.

Their fingers briefly brush as Dimitri wordlessly takes it from her, and he struggles in his attempt to remember the last time they had been able to sit this close to one another for no real reason at all. And it pains him a little when he realizes that he simply _ can’t _ recall the last time she had taken his hand in hers.

It’s a realization that’s almost sobering.

Ingrid, for her part, _ does _ remember though: it had been in the month prior to the Tragedy of Duscur, when her and Dimitri and Felix and Sylvain and Glenn had spent the day playing Knights and Bandits before Felix tripped in the middle of his big, dramatic speech and they had all tumbled down after him. It had been Sylvain’s idea, of course, at the whispered insistence that Felix would cry again if he got too embarrassed, and they had all unquestioningly followed suit because it was just what they _ did _ at the time. The five of them had just laid there for a few hours, giggling and talking and weaving bunches of Baby’s Breath into the gold of Dimitri’s hair. And when it was time to race back to the castle for supper, Ingrid had reached down to take Dimitri’s hand in her own and hoist him up with the rest of them. She didn’t know at the time that she’d never really get to spend such quality time with the prince ever again—how could _ anyone _ have predicted that the massacre would have played out the way it did?—but the ember of that lost touch of innocent youth is something that still burns brightly in the back of her mind… Like a fire that she prays will never go out.

Of Dimitri’s remaining childhood friends, there’s no doubt that Ingrid’s in the most denial about Dimitri’s mental state. Felix had been warning them for years, and even _ Sylvain _ had taken note of the darkness that stirred behind the endless blue of the prince’s eyes. It’s only been Ingrid, really, that continued to deny the reality of the situation despite her better judgment. She _ knows _ that Dimitri’s changed, that he’s _ not _ the same angelic boy with the weeds and flowers braided into his hair—but she doesn’t want to admit it. Because admitting it would mean letting go of those final moments of her youth; it would mean admitting that the friendships that have kept her going, that have _ sustained _ her are things left in the past that are now obsolete in the present.

And Ingrid can’t do that. She doesn’t know if she’ll ever be able to.

But there’s no ignoring what happened in Remire—the obvious way in which the prince had cracked. And so that’s why she’s here, right now, sitting beside a broken boy she desperately wants to fix but already knows that she can’t.

Dimitri takes a tentative sip from the mug Ingrid had gifted him and releases a slow and tired sigh. “Ingrid… Thank you.”

It’s Dimitri, more than anyone else, who wishes things could go back to the way they were before; the difference is that Dimitri’s wish is something unspoken, hidden away in the depths of his heart behind all the trauma and secrets and the promise of vengeance—it’s a wish that Dimitri doesn’t even realize he’s making as he finds himself leaning in to Ingrid’s warmth. So much has happened, so much he simply can’t _ understand _ , and yet… The whisper of fonder memories—however faint—is enough to make something inside him ache, something inside of him _ yearn _ for a satisfaction outside of revenge.

But Dimitri can’t admit to that because it would mean allowing the memory of the dead to wander outside his immediate consciousness, his immediate _ attention _—and where would the justice be in that? 

So when Ingrid finds the courage to reach out and stroke his hair—kindly, gently, fingering the locks and imagining Baby’s breath gently intertwined between them—Dimitri leans into her touch—slowly, hesitantly, temporarily releasing the tension in his shoulders and allowing himself to remember happier times, happier memories that really _ did _ exist for him, back in the days of his youth…

Before they know it, he’s fallen asleep in her lap as she quietly watches over him, just like when they were children.

When the door opens once more, Ingrid is only vaguely taken aback by the sight of bright red hair and gentle topaz eyes.

“I’m surprised to see you here of your own accord,” she murmurs, not really meaning it as the man carefully shuts the door behind him.

“Felix told me you guys would be here.” He maintains his distance for a moment, lingering by the doorway before nodding once at Dimitri’s slumbering form. “Is he alright?”

Ingrid stares at him, long and hard, as though reading what thoughts her old friend is hiding away in his mind. And when she realizes that he’s just as worried and just as refusing to admit such worry aloud, she finds herself a bit comforted. “... I hope so.”

Sylvain says nothing in response—probably because he, too, is aware that there’s nothing that can actually be said. He just takes a quiet seat on the other side of Dimitri and stays with them both for the rest of the night; two guardian sentinels standing watch over the slumbering prince.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting this out much later than I intended to but ;;; Glad that it's finally out! I've been a bit busy, but taking the time to write this was a well-deserved treat - just in time for the holiday season! As always, I really do appreciate all thoughts and comments! I'm always looking to improve my writing after all, haha.


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